


A Snowflake Fell (And It Felt Like A Kiss)

by DominikMacabre



Category: Bleach
Genre: Also Mentions Of The Movie It's A Wonderful Life, And Actually Make Emotional Progress, But In This Sense Dumb & Dumber Cancel Out Each Other's Dumb, Christmas Eve, For Holiday And Plot Reasons, Grimmjow Is Emotionally Constipated, Hurt/Comfort, I Swear It Starts Out Rough But It Gets Better I Promise Lmao, Ichigo Is An Overthinking Idiot, Implied Tatsuki/Orihime, Just In Case hhhhh, M/M, Rated M For Some Of Ichi's Graphic Monologue, Yay Them Lmao, various other characters mentioned - Freeform, wink wink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-25
Updated: 2020-12-25
Packaged: 2021-03-11 01:56:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,242
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28067382
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DominikMacabre/pseuds/DominikMacabre
Summary: ((Based on the song of the same name by Glasvegas)))Every time a bell rings an angel gets it's wings, and on this Karakura Christmas Eve a certain arrancar is no exception.
Relationships: Grimmjow Jaegerjaques/Kurosaki Ichigo
Comments: 7
Kudos: 69
Collections: Merry Christmas!





	A Snowflake Fell (And It Felt Like A Kiss)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [murderlight](https://archiveofourown.org/users/murderlight/gifts).



> Written for the wonderful Murderlight, who not only brightens my days with silly conversations about Grimmichi and Brave Souls, but also never ceases to amaze me with her wonderful stories <3
> 
> Enjoy!
> 
> ((Also I'm sorry for any mistakes, I read this like a thousand three times and preened it like a father goose, so hopefully it's pristine for reading!))

_“The heart burns,_

_Even though the rain falls”_

He stands by the river’s edge, tracing the reflections of lamplight across rippling waves with his eyes. The sky is overcast above him, small flakes of snow finally beginning to dust the barren streets of a Karakura winter. The wind rolling in waves off the Karasu River is icy against his cheeks, causing freckled skin to blush a pale rose. 

Ichigo Kurosaki walks along the water’s edge, pulling his scarf up over his nose in an attempt to fend off the chilling waterfront breeze. He absently thinks to himself how calming the cityscape is in the winter months, how empty and almost surreal the town feels. Looking up towards the sky briefly, he imagines the whole of his Karakura to simply be a facsimile of the real thing, the town sitting confined in the rounded walls of a snowglobe and being jostled only slightly, minutely, to coax the gentle snowflakes into motion that dust his eyelashes and melt against his cheeks. 

He knows better, but it’s a wonderful childish thought he clings to, if only for a second in time.

It has been over two years since the death of Yhwach. The clean-up in the Seireitei stills rages on, the rebuilding of Hueco Mundo progressing day-by-day under Harribel’s watchful eyes, and Ichigo, well, this will be the first Christmas he’s had with his family since he was 14. He’d insisted on a stay in the Squad 13 barracks alongside Rukia and the rest of his shinigami extended family, swearing up and down he’d be more help to the relief effort there than at home sitting under the kotatsu with a feast he didn’t deserve, but Head Captain Kyoraku had insisted, rather fervently in fact, that the holidays were the time to spend with his family. Refusal sat ready on his tongue, but the far off glassy look in the man’s eyes stopped those words from tumbling from his lips. The war took a toll on everyone, but no one person more than the Head Captain himself, the lonesome afternoons he spent with a dish of sake raised in kanpai next to a pristine headstone said all that his gaze needed to and more. Family was to be cherished after all- Ichigo knew that better than most.

And so he did what he was told, silently jogging through the precipice world a week previous with brows downturned in childish stubbornness.

Rifling around in his pockets, his freezing fingertips brush against the sharp edges of crumpled pink stationary; a grocery list Yuzu had tacked down in her pristine penmanship before all but shoving him out the clinic’s sliding doors, not even giving the poor male the decency of using their own front door. _Right_ , he mused absentmindedly, that’s why he was out in this winter weather- _a grocery run_.

Daydreaming by the water’s edge was nice, cathartic even, as peace had become a foreign entity to him over the years, but Ichigo had a task to complete. Reluctantly, his tennis shoes scraped over the pavement as he swiveled on the balls of his feet, tracing the water’s edge south until the bridge toward Kasazaki district came into view. He knew Hirohyaku Supermarket stayed open late, but he still erred on the edge of caution, tearing his gaze from the hypnotic ripples of the river beneath him and quickening his pace to his destination.

Seeing the festive suburban lights come into focus as he neared the market, he couldn’t help but feel out of place. In the town of his birth, the same place he’d known his entire life, Ichigo felt like a mere tourist, admiring the scenery as if it was the first time chestnut eyes had been set upon the glittering sights. He supposes many soldiers felt this way after returning home from war; cut adrift from the nonchalance of everyday life without the overbearing weight of his duty, his need to protect, to guide him forwards. Misplaced, Ichigo almost felt like his true purpose was along those front lines of battle, his usefulness only that of a trump card, a deadly instrument of war, ready to face death to preserve life. It was almost as if he’d forgotten he was human, a mere 19 year old no less, that had simply become a phoenix in a time of crisis and devolved back into the mere flame of a newborn chick, his human body retaining the muscle memory of battles fought but still only remaining mortal and weak in comparison.

He can’t help but laugh to himself quietly.

An instrument of war? A being who craved the violence of battle, who longed to grip the guard of a zanpakuto in his hands? He couldn’t help but find humor in that irony, remembering words exchanged in the heat of battle between a wayward panther and an overconfident savior. How he missed that crooked and cocky smile, the jagged and feral baring of teeth at his unfathomable strength. 

He’d never admit it aloud of course, but ever since they’d established their ‘ _playdates_ ’, as Kisuke teasingly called them, to spar at full strength, Ichigo found the empty space between their meetings feeling longer and longer as time droned on. Two days a month, only two, yet it felt like millenniums stretched on in that minuscule window of time. 

It made Ichigo itch, an incessant feeling under his skin that he just couldn’t place.

_“My child’s hand, so lost,_

_Wandering, in search of mine,_

_Close but far, I take your hand,_

_Together we will walk, to the end”_

Shopping basket in hand, Ichigo wandered around the market with Yuzu’s carefully penned list in hand, smiling warmly down at her perfect directions. She’d practically written him the whole recipe for the Yoshoku dish she made every year. A western cream stew, she called it, one cooked in a creamy white sauce and adorned with chopped vegetables and pieces of carefully cooked chicken. He could feel his stomach rumble in excitement, his mouth only barely remembering the last time he had eaten the meal fresh out of the pot, ladled over warm rice by Yuzu herself.

He had become accustomed to tepid leftovers between wars and crises over time, the harsh weight he placed upon his own shoulders to be the perfect warrior, the perfect protector, taking chief importance in his itinerary. It didn’t bother him all that much, _no_ , bother wasn’t really the right word in his mind, more like, it bred a sort of familial _guilt_ deep in his bones- a small seed that had grown into vines that caged his heart and held his treacherous tongue in place. He wanted to be there with Karin and Yuzu, help them with their homework, watch them grow, hell, even ruffle their hair and have childish disputes with them about things that wouldn’t matter when the next sun rose. _Normal_ things, he thought. That wasn’t to say he wished normalcy on himself, not even _close_. Humorously, it was the exact opposite; He wished he could hold all the power he did now gently in the palm of his hands, cradle it and hone it, and use it to be the shield that kept his loved ones safe, but it seemed that with power this great, this uncontrollable and unstable, those dreams would remain mere mirages he clung to in his dreams, small droplets of condensation that he followed with his eyes as it trailed down his reflection in the bathroom mirror at night as he hyperventilated at the terrifying reminders of inky black eyes and condescending laughter that he faced in night terrors every time he closed his eyes- he became haunted by that feeling, drowning in memories of hopeless powerlessness as he clung to his combat pass as if it were his only lifeline..

It was almost robotic how he seemed to make his way to the produce section, yet a miracle in disguise when he heard the tell-tale sound of a woman’s shoes slipping across cheap convenience store tiles, his mind finally waking from the daydream that muddled his fragile mind. 

A clumsy shoulder bumped into Ichigo from behind, jostling him forward against the dewy stack of cabbages he’d been ready to sort through, sending the neat stack tumbling to the floor in a muted rumble.

“Oh not again..” An all too familiar feminine voice chided to his right, a flurry of startled hands and fiery hair in his periphery reaching out desperately to stop the avalanche of produce she’d accidentally incited.

Orihime bundled cabbages into her arms quickly and clumsily, trying her hardest to avoid making more of a spectacle of herself than she already had, instead standing quickly and bumping against the pricing sign that was knocked sideways by a wayward vegetable, hitting her head with an embarrassing _thunk_. With glassy cinnamon eyes and flaming cheeks, she stared into Ichigo’s eyes in mute mortification, relief dripping off of her in waves as Ichigo held a helping hand out to her.

“Ichigo…,” She breathed reverently, wiping her wet eyes with the back of a dewy hand before bending over the produce shelf to deposit her armful of cabbages back into their, now haggard, display, “It’s been a while,” She mused, combing red manicured fingertips through curled marigold hair.

“Need some help there Orihime?” He asked gently, preserving however much of the smaller girl’s pride was left.

Her make-up was done immaculately, curled lashes framing sharp green eyeliner and a crimson glistening eyelid. Speckles of glitter fluttered onto her rosy cheeks with each expectant blink that adorned the amicable silence they shared. It shouldn’t have been so odd to see her all dressed up at the market on tonight of all nights, especially considering it was Christmas Eve and she lived in the neighborhood, but after a year and a half of solitude and study Ichigo wasn’t prepared to face such a stark reminder of his current uselessness.

_“It’s only until after the New Year,” Kisuke had chuckled, slipping the substitute shinigami badge from shaky fingertips with near practised ease, “Head Captain’s orders Kurosaki-san~”_

Ichigo fought the urge to frown at the memory, an exhausted sigh rushing past his lips as the phantom feeling of his power to protect being all but ripped from his hands danced like rising vapor through clammy fingertips. Orihime’s expectant and innocent doe-eyes staring up at him in an almost worrisome state of concern taunted him, feeding his ever-growing guilt. What would he say? He hadn’t changed at all, remaining like a ghost of his former self trapped in the same spiral of repeating time, but _she_ , _god_ , she practically _glowed_ , her thick curls almost haloed by the mirage of souten kisshun enveloping her aura like a beacon of healing warmth. 

She is not the ditzy teenager Ichigo knew in his former years, nor is she the frightened headstrong damsel he’d rescued from Hueco Mundo. The artificial light of the supermarket that dances across each strand of carefully styled hair transforms her, a superimposed photocopy of those two sprightly girls, yet, completely a new person. Her appearance remains mostly the same, short stature accentuated by feminine curves and near ethereal beauty; the change instead is in the way she looks at him with trepidation in chocolate eyes, the way worry is permanently etched in the lines that crease and crack carefully applied eye make-up.

“Oh no!” She shook her head insistently, curls bouncing with vibrancy as she moved, “I’m more worried about you! It’s been forever…”

“Has it?” Ichigo chuckled in feigned amicable surprise, slipping out of his reverie, “It’s nice to see you looking well. Going to a party tonight?”

Orihime’s spine straightened quickly, her rosy cheeks blooming into a warm cherry hue as she fiddled with the hem of a puffy pink coat, “Oh! Yes, I am! Tatsuki and I are having dinner with her mother tonight,” A sparkling red nail wove itself around loose pumpkin curls, “I came to the market to get the Christmas cake and a bottle of sake for us all…” Her sentence trailed off thoughtfully, unsure cocoa eyes darting to full produce shelving beside them, “What are you doing here in Karakura? I thought you were spending your time between the Seiretei and your studies,”

Ichigo mimicked her nervous actions, reading the holiday yen signs that adorned nearly every shelf in sight over and over in his head until he could properly weave a believable lie with his guilty tongue, “Visiting family, for, _you know_ , the holidays,”

It wasn’t _totally_ a lie, Ichigo knew that well enough, but the words tasted sour and deceitful on his tongue. He _was_ here to spend the holidays with his family, even if it wasn’t by choice, but the notion felt wrong, staged in a way that made him feel as if he was robotically playing the role of the perfect son while others slaved to rebuild their lives in the Seireitei- lives that Ichigo felt he had destroyed rather than saved. 

Was savior’s guilt a thing? Because if it was, Ichigo was sure he was suffering from a terminal case of it.

“Y’know, Ichigo,” Orihime starts quietly, pulling her perfect curls tighter around trembling fingers, “It’s okay to ask for help, if you ever need it that is,” Her glistening lips pull tight into a nervous, thin line, “Tatsuki, Chad, Uryu, even Keigo and Mizuiro, they’re all here for you, especially if you don’t feel comfortable talking to silly ol’ me,” She chuckles dryly, tucking abused strands of fiery hair behind a rose tipped ear, “We all fought the same war Ichigo, please don’t shoulder that burden all by yourself,”

Pain blooms in Ichigo’s chest, the thorns of shame that wrap around his lungs and restrict his breathing crawl up his throat and coax nausea from the pit of an empty stomach. He knows he’s caused her unnecessary pain, unnecessary worry all over again, but the dye has been cast, ruby droplets of despair darkening the bright aura she always seems to carry with her. Before he can rectify silly actions made by a misplaced and moping man, she grabs his shaking hands gently and places a chaste kiss along his knuckles.

“Merry Christmas Ichigo.”

He wants to reach forward, grab a wrist that glitters with holiday bells and bracelet charms and explain the pain that festers inside of him, the nagging feelings that poison his thoughts and manufacture him into the villain he’s been trying to fight since his teen years, but his limbs won't move an inch. Instead, he’s cemented to that spot, a sunset of sunny curls bouncing gently and swaying like the pendulum in a grandfather clock that mocks him as Orihime walks away, leaving Ichigo with a bad taste in his mouth and a crumpled grocery list smashed between shaking fingertips. 

_“The king runs,_

_Shaking off his shadows,_

_His armor clanking,_

_Scattering bones,_

_Tasting flesh and blood,_

_Crushing groaning hearts,_

_Stepping in alone,_

_To a distant beyond”_

The cool night air that was once refreshing and filled with fantasy is a ghost of what Ichigo perceived it to be, now only a bitter miasma filling his throat and feeding the nausea that sits in his stomach. He knows he isn’t alone, knows that his friends are all there to support him, they always have been, but what do they understand of a man so loved across worlds who loathes his existence so furiously? He’d given all of himself and more for the protection of the people he loved, being beaten down and stitched back together over and over and _over_ again, and he’d continue to repeat that insanity until the day it finally broke him if that’s what kept the seams of all three worlds together, but he supposes that was his problem. Ichigo was a giver, a protector bestowed with a stubborn brain and an even more stubborn heart, one that prioritized every living being’s happiness above his own, but what good would that do with this hatred that burned inside of him? How could he continue along this path of martyrdom with the nooses of everyone he loved secured tightly to his own string of fate? Sure he may not have been the one to secure those ropes around their fragile necks, but the pain he caused them as he slowly marched towards his last breath sure placed his foot firmly against the chair under their timid feet. One wrong move, one misspoken word, could be the kick that snaps their fragile throats under the pressure of a man that was never meant to hold such beauty in his blood-stained hands.

He’s trapped inside his own manufactured waking nightmare when a boot hits him square in the face, his feet scrambling for purchase on the snow-slick concrete as he sails backwards, the flailing image of a snow angel haloed by the scrambled mess of Yuzu’s groceries by the time he hits the ground. For a second, he swears he’d imagined it all, because there’s no way a stranger would pelt him with a boot on Christmas Eve, at least according to his own scrambled thoughts that is, but when a wicked bark of laughter pierces the foul night air, he tenses, not with fear or guilt this time, but with the unfamiliar wash of relief soaking through his skin and into his tired bones.

“Oi! I know that boot wasn’t enough to kill you Kurosaki,” Grimmjow shouts from a few paces away, “Get your ass off the ground before your pathetic human body freezes to death,”

For a second, he’s stupid enough to obey that command, letting fingers dig for purchase in the pillowy snow that burns his bare fingertips, but logic stops him before he can hoist his body upwards. What good would getting up do him? He knew what Grimmjow wanted, all too aware their fight was scheduled for this afternoon, but there was nothing he could do to sate the other’s bloodlust. He was just as powerless as his nightmares painted him to be. 

A fist grabs hold of a damp woolen peacoat, heaving Ichigo’s dead weight upwards until oceans of aggravation stare into muddled cinnamon in impatience, “Better be a good reason why you’re stargazing like a fresh corpse instead of answering me,” Grimmjow punctuates his frustration with a rough pinch, trapping an already bleeding nose between two unaturally strong fingers, “Any reason why you’re avoiding me?”

There’s a spark of life in Grimmjow’s eyes for an instant, so infinitesimal it’s almost unrecognizable, but Ichigo catches it as quickly as it burns and watches with fascination as swiftly as it’s snuffed out. A phantom of the same ugly worry that Orihime uses to look through a broken soul twinkles in the depths of eyes that have known nothing but stubborn survival, showing itself momentarily before being swallowed beneath the unsteady waves of calculated rage. 

It was refreshing to Ichigo in a terrifying sort of way to see the former espada draw from different wells of emotion deep inside of himself, utilizing the miniscule fragments of humanity he assumed were left over after death and transferred to his semi-conscious state as he evolved through the ranks of the empty and forgotten. Truly, he didn’t know what to make of the conflicted pinch between the other’s sharp brows, the tightness of a jaw aching to say something out of character but too proud to let the words melt the frigid air that kept the two at a safe distance, a distance that protected them both from becoming part of worlds they didn’t feel they belonged in, much less deserved to co-exist in. Ichigo was a mutt, a human boy born with the blood of every conglomeration of supernatural being between the three worlds, and Grimmjow, he was a fighter, a savage that was forced to sharpen his fangs under the empty moonlight as his humanity was forgotten. Neither of them asked for this life, but neither of them could give it up either.

Unable to will himself to tell Grimmjow the truth and break the fragile cord of distant companionship they’d established over the last couple years, Ichigo searched his brain for another lie, another drip of blood red dye, this time into an aura of blinding azure instead of orange. “It’s Christmas Eve,” He blurted, hoping, _praying_ , that the arrancar would at least know the significance of the human holiday, “I guess I was busy,” 

_Liar_. 

“I wasn’t thinking, sorry,”

The viciousness in oceanic eyes was replaced with cruel curiosity as a tight fist loosened around a damp coat. “Christmas? Is that what that hat bastard was talking about earlier?” Grimmjow’s eyes narrowed in suspicion, “The fuck is it? Seemed to rial that shitty nightmare of a shack up pretty bad; Had to get myself the fuck outta there,”

Humor warmed in Ichigo’s stomach, pulling the corners of his mouth up in a soft grin before catching himself and averting uncomfortable chestnut eyes. “It’s a holiday,” He began quietly, “A western celebration for families on the 25th of December every year. It might be a little domestic for your tastes honestly, but we have a family meal over at my house the eve before and exchange gifts and stuff. Yuzu, my little sister, cooks for us, while Karin, my other little sister, and my dad wrap gifts and set the table and stuff,” Ichigo knew he was making an embarrassing face as reminiscent and warm nostalgia danced up his spine in comfortable familiarity. He hadn’t realized how much he’d really missed those buried memories, the childhood reminders of his mother holding Yuzu under the arms as her small hands stirred the pot on the stove, Karin watching in barely contained fascination from atop her father’s shoulders as he balanced her with one hand on her knee and one placed firmly against his mother’s waist. Times were simpler then; A complete family full of love and contentment- no worries plaguing his brain, no inescapable fear of preservation pushing him to the brink of insanity, just the warmth of a young boy orbiting his mother like the radiant beam of sunlight she was. 

“Sounds gross,” Grimmjow scoffed, dragging Ichigo from his mournful thoughts and back onto the frigid, empty streets of Karakura. For a second Ichigo flounders to reacquaint himself with reality as Grimmjow rights himself, shuffling to retrieve a discarded boot amidst an amalgamation of strewn and dampened groceries. He almost mimics his actions, familiarizing himself with the state of disarray he seemed to be in before an open hand was thrust in front of his face, leaving him to stare at it in mute confusion. 

“C’mon Kurosaki, I don’t have all night. Show me how normal people do this Christmas shit,”

“Really?” Ichigo blurted before he could convince himself not to. “You really want to celebrate?”

“Fuck no,”

“Wha-”

Grimmjow barked a harsh laugh at the confused and almost insulted furrow of Ichigo’s brows, cutting off his inquiries before they could reach the evening air, “I’d rather watch you flounder over some stupid human tradition than spend another second with that _holly jolly_ hat fucker, so stop acting so surprised and get your frozen ass up before it cements itself to the concrete,”

All kinds of warning bells and alarm sirens wail in the recesses of Ichigo’s mind as he reaches forward and holds tightly to a warm hand and hoists himself back onto shaky legs. This was the opposite of their relationship, the warm amicable aura of the arrancar reminiscent of a deepening blue sky on a summer’s afternoon- a stark contrast to the neon volt of cyan lightning that the other seemed to always unfailingly exude. Careful hands bagged groceries like a second nature, even going as far as to hoist bags into his own free hands as he stares at Ichigo in expectation, waiting almost patiently for him to guide him in the right direction. It’s _thrilling_ , a feeling so akin to confusion and excitement that he doesn’t know which emotion to side with. He can hear the crunch of fresh snow beneath heeled boots walking ever so calmly behind him, validating that this was in fact truly happening and Ichigo hadn’t somehow been knocked unconscious by wayward flying footwear, but the surreal serenity that brewed between them as Ichigo neared closer and closer to the clinic set his heart into a unsteady rhythm. 

Why did he suddenly trust Grimmjow enough to lead him straight to his sanctuary, his _home_ , the place the most vulnerable pieces in the mosaic of his life resided? For a second, Ichigo thinks he’s downright stupid, that he’s walked himself right into a carefully and meticulously planned attack on him in his own neighborhood, but when a rough hand snakes around his waist and pulls him against a warm chest, a late night delivery truck nearly missing his frantic body, he seems to rethink every internalized piece of information he’s ever observed about the former espada. 

Of course they part as easily as they had seamlessly fit together, but Ichigo’s heart hammers the entire way home, his dizzy head overthinking everything from the feeling of humid and exasperated breath against his frozen neck to the protective feeling of Grimmjow’s arms deeming his life important enough to preserve with his own unsteady hands.

_“You are framed by something sublime,_

_Similar to,_

_Hope, worship, and fear”_

If anyone had ever insisted that Ichigo would have the same arrancar that had tried to gut him every chance he got, standing in his living room on Christmas Eve making nice with his siblings, he’d have thought they had more than a few screws loose. Yet there he stood, arms draped in colorful yards of tinsel and lights as Karin uses him as no more than a decoration rack as she stacked pieces of an artificial tree together in the corner of the family room. It felt strangely domestic, warm and welcoming, as he cast a curious glance towards the kitchen where Ichigo sat, his eyes burning with questions and annoyance but lacking the usual malice he always seemed so hellbent on maintaining.

Yuzu elbows Ichigo gently, suggestively raising her eyebrows before she speaks, “Is he cute?” She whispers, “His blob seems tall and maybe a little…blue? Kind of like the sky in the morning in Spring,” 

Ichigo’s face burns pink under her playful and contemplative gaze, “ _Huh?!_ ” He all but sputters, “You know what he is right? He could use your _bones_ as _toothpicks_ Yuzu,”

She puts her hands on her hips and scoffs at him, “And so could _you_ and that girl you told us about, Nel, _right_? If he was nice enough to bring my groceries home and help Karin then I don’t care if he’s the Grinch incarnate,” Yuzu glances back at him, squinting ever so carefully to try and distinguish more of his features against the malformed blur her weak spiritual awareness can pick up on, “He’s a pretty okay blob in my book,” She smiles at him, unaware he’s staring right at her with a look of pure unadulterated confusion, pointy azure eyebrows lost beneath messy damp bangs. Yuzu looks up at Ichigo with gentle trepidation on her face, “Do you think he’ll stay for our movie tonight? I know he’s Ebeneezer Scrooge or whatever, but maybe if we teamed up as the Kurosaki ghosts of Christmas and show him a good time maybe his heart will grow a couple sizes,”

Ichigo wants to argue with her that his status of arrancar warrants that he doesn’t have a heart to begin with, at least according to his knowledge, but his sister’s hopeful cinnamon eyes could melt anyone’s frigid composure, so instead of fighting her, he shakes his head and sighs. “No promises, but I’ll ask, okay?” 

Yuzu’s face lights up brighter than the tree Karin strings with strobing lights, her fist pumping in the air in victory, mimicking the same actions as Karin when she scores a goal. “Thank you Ichi-nii! I won’t forget it!” She squeezes him into a warm hug and skips further into the kitchen to stir her stew, “The food’ll be done soon, so ask him before then, okay?” Ichigo just nods his head in obedience.

 _The atmosphere of the house is warmer than usual_ , Ichigo muses to himself, a stark contrast to the feigned goofy aura his father puts up to wash away the stresses of reality. It’s a forced sort of peace that makes Ichigo uneasy, keeps him on edge and ready to throw himself into harm's way at any second to preserve the false tranquility. The air right now, in contrast, isn’t unnatural at all however, the amicable silence everyone seems to coexist in is sincere, _tangible_ , comfortable even. It brings him back to that same orbital pull that his mother had; the sunshine and pure love she exuded drew in all kinds and put at ease so many weary souls. It was as if her mere essence was pure concentrated compassion, a bright and blinding aura of solicitude that brought the enervated and debilitated into her warm embrace like mere moths to a flame. That same welcoming geniality seemed to fill the expanse of his house like a strong perfume, the sweet scent of affability calming his nerves like a warm cup of chamomile tea on an especially cold evening.

Sighing to himself contentedly, Ichigo steals one last glance at Yuzu. She stands at attention in front of their kitchen stove, the stool he so often saw beneath her feet now forgotten in the cupboards beneath the sink. She’s grown into a young woman finally, the aura of compassion he can remember like a honeysuckle dream sticking to her like cockleburs to clothing in the summer months. Her disposition has never changed; as maternal as ever, she stirs her stew with care, tasting the creamy sauce every couple minutes to assure the seasonings are something she will be proud to serve. It puts a smile on Ichigo’s face and puts him at ease, giving him the courage to make his way into the living room and towards an azure silhouette that always plagues him with more questions than answers.

Holding Karin up by the scruff of her Christmas sweater like a defenseless kitten, Grimmjow gives her the added height needed for her to, rather roughly, plop the silver star atop their finished tree. When her feet are planted firmly on the ground she holds her hand up to the former espada in a high five, one that he regards with open confusion as she stares at him in excited expectancy.

“It’s a high five,” Ichigo interjects, causing the two to garner him a look of questioning. He reaches gently for Grimmjow’s hand, clasping his burning wrist with one hand while demonstrating a high five with his other, “It’s sort of like a way human’s celebrate a victory,” He explains, the former espada’s head unconsciously cocking to the side like a curious feline, “You and Karin were victorious in setting up the Christmas tree so she’s asking for an acknowledgment in your success,”

Though it's a very odd way to explain such a commonplace gesture, Grimmjow seems to register it with muted acceptance, slapping his hand against Karin’s with a loud smack, causing the smaller girl to pull her hand away with a small yelp. Planting her fist against his elbow with the strength of a mere gecko facing a raging dino, she furrows her eyebrow in a pained grimace, a playful smirk dancing across her features. “That hurt you lanky asshole,” She starts, waving her stinging hand roughly to air out the pain, “Next time I’m nailing you with one twice as powerful, got it?” Her glance is turned to Ichigo now, ashen walnut eyes regarding him with outright mischief, “I’m going to go call dad and see when he’s planning on coming home. You and blueberry over here can clean up. C’ya!”

Before Ichigo can even protest the tidying job that had been thrown his way, Karin is already sprinting up the stairs, undoubtedly in a bid to retrieve her cell phone from her bedroom. The living room is a mess of boxes marked with various holiday contents and decorations, crumbled pieces of newspaper and twist ties littering the floor as ungracefully as Ichigo would’ve expected Karin to unwrap them. For a second he’s almost forgotten why he’s come to the room, engrossed in gathering wayward scraps of paper until Grimmjow plops onto his couch unceremoniously and sheds his ivory jacket.

“The little Kurosakis are just as lame as I would’ve expected,” Grimmjow snorts, sitting cross legged on the sofa like an overgrown child, “The lemon is soft and weak just like you in your human body, but the dark haired one is feisty, just like you in Hueco Mundo,” He gives Ichigo a mischievous sharp-toothed grin, “I wanna fight her too one day. Bet she’d be more willing to give me an all out fight than your weak lemony ass,”

Ichigo levels him an annoyed glance, “Her name is Yuzu, first of all, not _lemon_ ,” He corrects, narrowing his eyes in challenge, “And I’m not reluctant to fight you, you psychopath, I don’t have my combat pass and Kisuke confiscated Kon until New Years. I couldn’t fight you if I wanted to. I’m some fucked up shinigami version of grounded,”

Grimmjow considers this for a second, staring in open suspicion of Ichigo’s words for what feels like an eternity before he lets out a troubled sigh, “ _Lame_ ,” He leans back against the backrest of the couch, letting his neck fall against the cushions dramatically, “So, what, are you and the pipsqueaks going to cook and clean all night or is anything even remotely interesting going to happen for this Christmas thing?”

Stealing a backwards glance at the silhouette of Yuzu, who walks around the kitchen humming to herself, Ichigo contemplates whether asking Grimmjow to stay for the twin’s movie night is really worth it. “Hey,” He starts, beckoning Grimmjow to crack one oceanic eye open, “You ever watch movies over at Kisuke’s place?”

“Movies?” He asks, shrugging nonchalantly, “Sometimes I guess. Don’t really watch them, just listen to them while I lounge around the shop,”

Ichigo catalogues this information for the future, hoping it’ll come in handy next time he pays a visit to Kisuke. He wonders what kind of shady hollywood nonsense the shop owner keeps on his DVR or locked in his DVD cabinets. Perhaps he’ll bribe Jinta for the key next time he finds himself on that side of town. “Want to watch one?” Grimmjow gives him his full attention now, straightening up against ruffled cushions to raise a speculative eyebrow, “My sisters are obsessed with western Christmas movies. They do this weird 25 days of Christmas marathon every single year where they watch a movie a day until Christmas,” Ichigo explains, averting his weary gaze, “I don’t know what they’re watching tonight, but Yuzu wanted to know if you’d like to stay and watch with us,”

The silence is deafening as the former espada sits in muted rumination, azure eyes scanning Ichigo as if he has the answer written plainly across his forehead. The arrancar doesn’t seem uncomfortable or angry, rather, Ichigo thinks he seems kind of taken aback, even, dare he say, _nervous_ at the mere proposition. Was it weird for him to have asked? He’s known Grimmjow since he was 15, and while their relationship has more often than not been that of enemies rather than allies, he feels that the tentative understanding they’d garnered over the last two years in the form of bi-monthy spars would count for something right? Tonight was turning out strange enough as it stood- a family movie between not-quite-enemies-but-not-quite-friends wouldn’t be too supernatural, right?

“Sure, why not,” He shrugs, patting the spot next to him, “But you’re up here with me. I don’t want to be stuck between two mini versions of you, got it?”

Ichigo chuckles at the pure insanity of this Christmas Eve, shaking his head in absolute disbelief, “Whatever you want _your highness_ ,” Grimmjow’s face scrunches up in distaste, “I need to take a shower, you can take a cat nap on the couch or something until dinner’s ready,”

Grimmjow gives him a stiff middle finger despite the way he tucks his arms tightly against his chest, leaning his head back on the couch cushions and letting his eyes drift closed. 

Ichigo pads up the stairs quietly, mystified by the absolute absurdity of the ex-espada’s- mostly- amicable disposition this evening. He stops at the top of the stairs, staring down at the other from the landing with a soft smile on his face. Without the scowl that seemed permanently etched onto the other’s features, he looked younger, much more gentle and approachable. He was unbelievably handsome, peachy skin clear of any blemish, only adorned by the teal smears of his estigmas and the bone jaw adhered to his cheek. His hair was unkempt, baby blue strands covering his forehead, his usual spiked hair drooped and dried unusually smooth compared to his usual wild hairstyle. He was like a completely different person as he sat there blissfully unaware of Ichigo’s warm gaze, as if they were strangers and they could redo their first meeting all over again. Maybe they could’ve been friends, like Ishida and Chad, maybe they could’ve been lovers, like Tatsuki and Orihime. Ichigo sighs painfully, wrapping his arms around himself as if to hold his broken pieces together. It was a wishful thought, a deep desire Ichigo held inside when he looked the azure epada’s way, one he’d cling to and take to his grave, but with his soft features and contented snores drifting up the stairway it was almost too painful to think about. 

_“I wonder if I can keep up with…_

_The speed of a world you’re not in.”_

Steam rose off of Ichigo’s sun-kissed skin in vaporous coils, translucent mists that rose towards the heavens and left condensation to drip down the bathroom’s tile walls. It was refreshing to have the almost scalding water beat down on him from above, baptising his troublesome thoughts and stringing together his composure so he could face the others again with a warm smile planted on his face. Ichigo wasn’t a superstitious man, but he felt somewhere along the way he must’ve garnered a curse, some sort of wicked hex that warped him into the loathsome person that stared back at him through the reflection on drenched tile. After all, that could be the only explanation he’d fallen for the only one person who wanted nothing more than to gloat atop his fresh corpse.

He’d realized it first when the nightmares started, when every dream he was endlessly running through the maze of the Wahrwelt searching achingly through ivory streets for blinding baby blue. Inky black eyes and taunting nonchalance followed him through every winding corridor; the memories of Yhwach’s terrifying power and Askin’s carefree yet deadly abilities nearly wiping him and Grimmjow out before the war had even reached a climax haunted him. He’d thought it was guilt driving his sense of responsibility for the arrancar’s well-being, a sense of hatred towards himself for punishing the espada and arrancar for Aizen’s crimes and the ugly stain that indiscretion had left on his conscience, but things could never be so simple for him. Instead, Ichigo found himself screaming until his voice was hoarse and his head was pounding, frantic arms gathering a tattered and cold Grimmjow into his arms at the foot of the Quincy’s palace. It wasn’t guilt, nor was it a moral need to rectify rules carried out by a malinformed teenager, _no_ , it was something much stronger.

It was love. 

A painful, burning, _itching_ that crept under his skin and set his cells ablaze. He’d never felt pain the way he had in that nightmare, hands stained sanguine with the very essence of the other’s life being melted away between his trembling fingertips, the peachy hue drained from soft skin and replaced with a pallid and deadly chill- an image that still plagued Ichigo to this very day. He’d woken up from that dream screaming, a horrifying sound that had made even Karin cry, tears streaming down his face in ugly streams in tandem with her own and Yuzu’s cries of worry. They’d slept on his floor for weeks after that incident, sneaking in after Isshin had bid them a goodnight and bunching pillows and blankets up against the foot of his bed, Karin always sleeping sitting slouched against the wooden bedframe with a drooling Yuzu curled against her knee softly snoring. He’d tucked their small forms under warm blankets every morning when he’d awoken and kissed their clammy foreheads every night before washing his sweat-drenched body after another night-terror.

Turning the water handle slowly, Ichigo shut off the stream of water that warmed his skin to a pale pink and gave him goose pimples, sliding the glass door sideways to step out and dry his dripping body. He gave himself a once over in the mirror, overgrown orange locks curling around his ears and sticking to the back of his neck stubbornly, reminding him of the shaggy hair he donned in his battle with Aizen all those years prior. He looked miserable, choppy drenched bangs unable to hide the furrow in tangerine brows and the aching sorrow in chocolate irises. He knew once he ran a towel through his hair, over his body, and back again, he’d be able to feign his happiness, purge Grimmjow and his nightmares from his mind, perhaps even wipe away his misguided guilt for even being here in the first place, but for now he stood in deafening silence, counting pale freckles in his reflection as he willed the tears making trails down his burning cheeks to disappear.

Maybe if he was lucky, he’d disappear with them.

_“I can’t protect you without holding a sword,_

_I can’t embrace you while holding a sword.”_

Yuzu’s stew was euphoric, every bite a minuscule masterpiece as Ichigo practically licked his bowl clean. Instead of eating at the table as they traditionally did, the four of them huddled around the living room TV, Grimmjow and Ichigo sharing the couch while Yuzu and Karin laid under the kotatsu on their stomachs, elbows propping up their heads so they could regard their choice of movie with enraptured eyes. The movie was called _It’s A Wonderful Life_ , a terrible irony considering the discontent that swirled in Ichigo’s flustered mind, but he wouldn’t complain. It was one of his sisters’ favorites, the black and white old-timey romance and sentimental message the movie portrayed caught the teenage girls' fancy every time they replayed the classic for the holiday season. 

Ichigo had expected Grimmjow to hate the movie, to outright scoff through the entire thing, maybe even mimic vomiting sounds like the absolute child he was, but instead he looked just as enraptured as his sisters, his body statuesque and frozen to his spot as he took in the Christmas story. Ichigo could hardly pay attention to the flick himself, though in retrospect it really wasn’t of any consequence either way considering he’d seen the movie dozens of times, instead, he kept a sideways glance on the arrancar, cataloging his every reaction to the plot and trying to will down the burning of his cheeks as he stared in fascination at the two main characters kissing in desperation.

From his sisters, there were laughs, there were oohh's and aahh's and their fair share of tears as the movie continued closer and closer to its finale. This was all typical to Ichigo, but when the lead male, George Bailey, was ready to throw his life away, a wayward hand found his, burning fingertips lacing together with his own and squeezing as the movie reached its climax. For a second, he thought he was dreaming, the recollection of attraction and night-terrors causing him to hallucinate a Christmas miracle, but when he stared down at his own shaking and clammy palms, he found a firm hand intertwined with his own, the small tremble in Grimmjow’s fingertips causing Ichigo to squeeze back in petrified reassurance. 

He’d assumed the movement was unconscious, something the arrancar had done on pure instinct to calm his own frayed nerves- an edge-of-your-seat type of stress from the climax of the movie perhaps. That had to be it in Ichigo’s mind, but oceanic eyes found his too quickly, too easily, and the uncharacteristic, feral worry that was reflected into his own chestnut irises made his chest clench painfully. Why was he looking at him that way? Had he done something wrong to garner the other’s sympathy? What was that look on his face for? 

“ _Are you okay?_ ” Ichigo mouthed to the arrancar, squeezing his hand once again in reassurance. He knew the other wasn’t one to speak for himself, opting instead to solve his frustrations and conflicted feelings with violence in lieu of voicing anything that could compromise the icy exterior he put on for everyone to see. He’d never seen the other's brows pinched in fear quite like this before. To anyone who hadn’t met the arrancar, they’d say he was near petrified with the way his glassy eyes bore into Ichigo.

Instead of answering the wordless question, he just held onto Ichigo’s hand tighter, as if he was the only lifeline in a vast sea of emptiness. He didn’t speak a single word for the entirety of the rest of the movie, only stared at the TV in almost unblinking concentration until Zuzu delivered the final line to close the movie off on a merry note. His sisters had long fallen asleep, curled into each other under the heat of the kotatsu as the credits rolled. Ichigo contemplated waking them before he ventured upstairs to his own bedroom, but decided upon flicking the TV off with the remote and turning down the lights so that the Christmas tree was the only strobing source that contributed to the festive ambiance the room held.

When a warm hand gripped his wrist tightly, Ichigo didn’t know what to make of it. “Where’s your room?” Grimmjow asked, voice trembling slightly but able to pull off a feigned sense of nonchalance. Ichigo pointed wordlessly at the cracked doorway that was visible from the bottom of the stairs and let himself be dragged along as soon as the arrancar was given the confirmation. The fire that burned in Ichigo’s chest only flared brighter, the flustered worry that had fanned the flames since foreign fingers intertwined with his own nearly scalded him from the inside out, and at this point in time, Ichigo wasn’t sure if this really was reality or a fabricated somniloquy deliriously spoken from the unconscious depths of his heart into the darkness of his bedroom as he wandered through a vivid dreamscape of his own machinations. 

_“Will you count with me,_

_My teeth marks,_

_On you?”_

Contrary to the haste that Grimmjow took in dragging Ichigo up to his bedroom, once the door was shut firmly behind the two, he seemed to mellow out, walking around the unfamiliar space and examining all the knick-knacks and books that adorned Ichigo’s shelves. Running his finger along a rather dusty desk, he levels the record player atop the surface a contemplative look, taking a vinyl from its place stacked neatly next to the music player before holding it up in examination. “Vinyls?” He asked incredulously, flashing the disc to Ichigo with a raised eyebrow.

“Yeah,” Ichigo nods, taking the album from the arrancar’s hands, “They play music, sort of like a CD but older,”

Grimmjow narrows his brows at Ichigo, ripping the item from Ichigo’s hands and grumpily depositing it upon the pile on the dusty desk, “I know what a vinyl is you imbecile,” He scoffs, “I’m an arrancar Kurosaki, not a fuckin’ _alien_ ,”

Ichigo’s face heats up in embarrassment as he watches the other take a seat on his mattress, “Well how am I supposed to _know_ when you look at everything and everyone like they’ve personally _wronged_ you?” He crosses his arms across his chest, “I was just trying to help, _asshole_ ,”

“That’s your fuckin’ _problem_ ,” The arrancar starts, averting his gaze and tensing under the weight of unspoken words, “You’re always sticking your neck out to help anyone and everyone like some sort of _puppy_ desperate for praise. It’s disgusting to watch you kiss everyone’s ass as if it makes you some sorta saint or something,” Grimmjow kicks a bare foot against the worn wood of his desk, the small jostle to it’s foundation making it creak ever so quietly under the stress of the foreign pressure, “Tell me Kurosaki, what has any one of those assholes ever done to deserve you bendin’ backwards the way you do for them? And don’t give me some sappy speech about how they saved your fuckin’ life or something, because making you a martyr in a war you don’t even belong it isn’t equal to a shitty one-off rescue,”

Ichigo takes his words in slowly, contemplating every world with calculated cogitation. Why does he do it? To become stronger? To become a shield for those who can’t defend themselves? _No_ , he muses, that was too selfless, too saintly. He wasn’t that generous, no matter how hard he tried to convince others of that single quality. Truly, he was more _selfish_ than anything. If his extended family in the Soul Society had ever threatened the life of anyone he cherished- Kisuke, Yoruichi, Nel, _Grimmjow_ \- he wouldn’t even _hesitate_ to cut them down like he’d done years ago in his bid to rescue Rukia from execution, no matter how close their bonds had become over time. He thinks back to nightmares absorbed under empty moonlight, visions of Grimmjow’s pale features taking in the light of the desolate sky and reflecting none, crimson stains soaking the ivory streets and painting trembling fingertips with already sticky ruby droplets.

“To avoid losing the people I care about I guess,” He decides on, wrapping his arms tightly around himself to keep all the pain, the compilation of damages that seemed to spill through the seams of his very being, at bay and away from the arrancar’s sharp awareness, “I think I just assume as long as I’m the one in harms way, as long as I’m playing the role of the martyr, as you put it, my life can be sacrificed to keep someone like-” _You_ . _Someone like you_ , he wants to say, but he can’t will the words to roll off his terrified tongue, “Someone I _value_ , safe from harm,”

“ _Bullshit_ ,” Grimmjow counters, a growl rumbling from deep within his chest as he rises from the bed to grab a fistful of the other’s cotton jumper, “Tell me the truth you suicidal bastard- you’re just doing all this stupid reckless shit because you think every little fuckin’ thing is your fault. You hold everyone’s blame over your stupid orange head as if it’s your responsibility,” He slams Ichigo’s back against his bedroom door, rattling the wood on it’s hinges and staring at him with eyes filled with sorrow instead of the anger that belies his tone, “You’re running yourself ragged because you’re thinking the same self-centered stupid shit that the bastard in that shitty movie did. You think if you’d never been born everyone would magically be saved or some stupid shit like that,” Fingers tighten in cream-colored cotton, the fabric whining in resistance as Grimmjow roughly sandwiches Ichigo between the frigid emptiness of the wooden door and the arrancar's own burning body, “You think you’d be better off gone, but do you know even how fucked up the world would be if you were? You’ve saved worlds, _countless_ times, you’ve saved entire cities, _citadels_ , of people- _fuck_ Kurosaki, you’ve saved _me_ ,”

_“If you became a snake tomorrow,_

_And began devouring people,_

_If you roared your love for me,_

_With that mouth you use to devour people,_

_Could I still say that I love you,_

_As I do today?”_

Ichigo can hear his heart hammering in his ears, dizziness weakening his limbs and forcing him to lean more weight onto creaking wood for security against his traitorous and trembling legs. He wants to interject, question every single word that he’s sure he’s heard come from Grimmjow’s frowning lips, but the arrancar continues to speak, spilling all his unspoken feelings into the air as if this was his very last night on Earth.

“Do you even know what it’s like to know you, Kurosaki? You’re magnetic, you drive me _insane_ \- every single time I see you, no matter how much I try to hate your guts, I end up closer and closer to you. I miss you when you're gone, wait for you when you’re not there and ache every single time you’re away. It’s _disgusting_ , and yet I can’t get enough of it,” Grimmjow’s face scrunches in pained confusion, the toll his words take on him egregiously obvious in the way his fist clenches and unclenches around wrinkled fabric, “Every time you stare out into space like you’re caught somewhere between a dream and reality, every time you look at your shitty friends with that stiff smile and those tired eyes it feels like my hollow hole is tearing me in half. It’s like _I_ taste blood when _you_ bleed,”

The words hit Ichigo like a freight train, clammy, quivering hands grabbing onto Grimmjow's arm in a vice grip to keep himself standing. He doesn’t know how to respond to the other’s words, the confession raising the hairs on the back of his neck like a sweet lullaby that masks the clandestine omen that a careful serenade hides in its tranquil melody. He must look like a deer in headlights, because instead of letting him get his bearings and respond to the speech Grimmjow’s just given him, the other rolls his eyes, “ _For fucks sake Kurosaki_ ,” he sighs in defeat, grasping Ichigo’s burning cheeks with equally warm palms before dragging their faces together, trembling lips meeting soft, supple ones in surprising harmony.

_“If you were to give me wings,_

_I would fly for you._

_Even if this entire land,_

_Were to sink underwater,_

_If you were to give me a sword,_

_I would stand up and fight for you,_

_Even if this entire sky,_

_Were to pierce you with it’s light.”_

It takes a minute for the two to maneuver around the jaw fragment adhered to the arrancar’s face, but Ichigo doesn’t mind the rough scrape of sharpened teeth or the marbled feeling of bone rubbing against his flaring cheeks, in fact, he clings to those minute feelings as proof of reality, the sensations pulling him from the reverie he seemed to be stuck drowning in since he’d stepped out of the Senkaimon back home. Grimmjow's lips are red hot, piercing brands on his clammy skin that contradict the cool tones of his sharp features, his azure eyes, his baby blue hair, his entire body pricking in excitement. 

He’s fantasized about this moment a thousand times, scenarios of languid kitten licks, two tongues tangled together in perfect sync, contrasting wild fantasies of nails dragging red lines into sun-kissed skin, sharp fangs piercing supple flesh as fingers knot in handfuls of sky blue windblown tresses in ecstasy. This was neither one nor the other yet better than both. Ichigo knows pieces of Grimmjow others would consider diminutive, things like how hard he swings his sword in battle, his war cry, his teasing and taunting words, the agony of his battered body, the magic of his kindness- all of that he knows completely, has photocopied into his memory to hold like a lifeline during nights he succumbs to gruesome nightmares that coax nausea from deep within his twisting stomach. Clinging to him now however, tasting like strength and sweetness, Grimmjow is like a stranger, the whole of him remaining the same in ferocity and magnificence yet being haloed in a new shade of tranquil turquoise warmth that seemed to blanket the two in their own little world. 

Part of Ichigo is terrified of wanting him, petrified of letting the small self-loathing string that keeps him anchored to his own piteous abstraction snap under the pressure of searing hands that clutch his florid cheeks. He’s afraid to let go, years of reigning himself in for others causing him to brim with trepidation as his own sweaty palms clutch the fabric of the arrancar’s jumpsuit as if it's the only thing keeping him sane in this impossible, breathtaking instance. Over his head the heat kicks on, tousling his still-damp hair as it showers the both of them in the warmth of the cinnamon scented air that carries throughout the house.

They separate for only a second, Grimmjow grabbing Ichigo under the arms to hoist him off the ground, his weightless legs locking around the arrancars waist as he drapes trembling arms over bare shoulders and cards finger through inconceivably soft strands of arctic hair. He walks them backwards, small hesitant steps until a clothed calf meets waiting wood, their lips meeting in a breathless kiss as Ichigo is flipped around and pinned to his mattress under the arrancar’s weight. Boldly, Grimmjow cups his chin in firm hands, tilting Ichigo’s jaw upwards to lave open-mouthed kisses against his exposed and rubicund throat. Ichigo can’t help the sequestered and sacred confession that hastily falls from kiss-swollen lips.

“ _I love you,_ ”

It’s spoken in a quiet moan, a reverent exclamation that’s exhaled into the air like a heavy sigh of unbridled and palliated relief. Ichigo is lucid enough still to go stiff with mortification under the uncharacteristically gentle love bites Grimmjow sucks into his pliant skin, his fingers tightening in sky colored tangles as he chews on cherry red lips, chastising himself for admitting something so foolish to someone so dear.

The arrancar pauses on the attention he focuses on Ichigo’s neck, smirking down in half-lidded satisfaction at the purpling blemishes on his throat before licking a warm stripe of saliva over trembling lips, “Me too,” He murmurs, voice rough with unabashed attraction, “Love you, _Ichigo_ ,” 

_“You, without sin, are like the sun,_

_You, even with sin, are like the sun,”_

Their lips connect again with new meaning, Ichigo beyond any sort of sensical belief that this could really, truly be happening, but too ecstatic to convince himself it’s fiction. Hands wander under beige cotton, warm fingers dancing across Ichigo’s ribs as if to memorize their shape and feel while his own wandering hands drag down the zipper of an obsidian jumpsuit, exposing the scarred chest and gaping midsection that he knows so well. They continue to various states of undress, mapping out each other’s bodies and worshiping the other’s mere existence before an obnoxious sound causes them both to nearly jump out of their skins.

Downstairs, upon walking in the door after a long shift of helping Ryuuken at the hospital with the unfortunate influx of holiday patients, Isshin rings a deafening set of winter bells, bellowing through the house, “Merry Christmas my lovely family! Oh _Masaki~_ Another year with our beautiful family comes to a close!” as the clock on Ichigo’s desk chirps with the arrival of midnight Christmas day.

Ichigo couldn’t help but chuckle at the absurdity of it all, playfully kissing the arrancar's rosy nose, “Y’know Grimmjow, they say every time a bell rings, an angel gets its wings,”

Grimmjow’s face scrunches in jovial disgust, pinching Ichigo’s nose between rough fingers, “Shut the fuck up,” He drones, dragging the ginger down by his nose to plant a soft kiss against the damp tangerine bangs that stick to his forehead, “I’m the furthest thing from an angel that your saintly ass is ever going to find, now stop grinning at me like an asshole and kiss me,”

He obliges the arrancar’s request, slotting their lips together gently before pulling back and looking into azure eyes with a request. “Never take your hands off of me ever again… _please_ ,” It’s spoken more like a plea than a desire, but Grimmjow takes it with grace, letting warm hands roam the expanse of a bare chest as his eyes sincerely meet melting chocolate.

“I want you forever and longer, insecure bastard, I’m not letting you go that easily, not when I’ve finally got you where you belong.” The heady words are spoken dangerously close to his own lips, the hands that trace nonsensical shapes into his skin making him squirm in anticipation of the arrancar's next move.

Grimmjow’s bold confession ends up being the last words uttered into the sultry air that hangs between them, beams of moonlight streaking through the curtains and haloing the former espada’s sharp jawline and electric hair like an ethereal knight as he raises his hips to discard the jumpsuit that formally sat bunched atop his bare hips. As the other descends once again, connecting their lips with licentious and tenacious care, Ichigo can’t help but tighten his hold on the other, arching his back in ecstatic conviction as he silently thanks Kisuke and Kyoraku for their merry meddling. 

It truly was _a wonderful life_.

**Author's Note:**

> @dominikoctw on Twitter for anyone who wants to keep up with my ridiculous self :')
> 
> ((And if you haven't already, give @murderlight a follow on Twitter as well and check her Grimmichi fics out here on ao3! You won't regret it <3 ))


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